


A Fright of Ghosts

by djinmer4



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 20:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17009088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djinmer4/pseuds/djinmer4
Summary: In the Third Age, Elrond seeks some advice from his father.





	A Fright of Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Family Supper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12136836) by [uumuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu). 



When the sensation of being watched changed from a distant awareness to the feeling that of someone observing just over his shoulder, Elrond knew he was close. The forest on the western side of Ered Luin should have been empty, the humans wintering in the welcoming lands of the east below Forochel and the dwarves to their settlements under the mountains. Not even Cirdan would bother patrolling the desolate Forlindon in the winter. But Elrond knew there was someone here and hitched the rucksack higher as if to cover his back from an enemy.

As it was, he nearly fell into the blaze, when empty woods suddenly changed to a neat camping site. A strong arm wrapped around his chest, pulling him away and saving him from a nasty burn. “ _Alatulya, yonya._  I did not expect to see you so late in the year.”

Elrond sighed, then sat down on the bench beside the fire. The small encampment he had been expecting to find was actually a large clearing, with a well-built cabin to one side with the beginnings of several structures. The bonfire he had nearly walked into was, in fact, the beginnings of a small forge, too small for any great work, but set away from the cabin. He ignored the various flickers of red on the edge of his eyes and focused on his father.

“Mara re, atar. I had not thought to look for you so soon after our last meeting, but I needed to speak to you about something.” He passed the rucksack to Maglor. Within contained some items he did not think the other could obtain easily in isolation: some bottles of wine, cheese, a set of silver strings spelled against corrosion. A new cloak, although it appeared that the Feanorian’s current one was still serving well. “Did you see a ship sail into the Gulf of Lhun this past year?”

“I did indeed.” The older ner set the rucksack aside. “And I know exactly what and who came on that ship.”

Elrond released a silent sigh of relief. Cirdan had known the Maia for what they were immediately, but not who. And given what happened the last time a Maia claimed to be a messenger of aid sent by the Valar, any information on the identities of these Istari was essential. “Could you tell me who they are and what we should expect?”

Maglor did not answer but instead looked over his son’s head. The sensation of being watched did not cease, but doubled, then split and came to rest on each side of Elrond. He kept his eyes on his father. “Alatar,” said a voice like the crackling of fire, a shadow of smoke and soot on his right. “A servant of Orome. Strong, aggressive. More interested in the arts of the ethereal than the physical.” Images came to mind, of shared hunts and bitter arguments in distant Valinor.

From his left, a gurgle from a torn throat. “Pallando is the other. Alatar’s friend and follower in all things.” He knew if he turned the image would be far less abstract, but more disturbing, almost a real body but with dull eyes and blood dripping from both throat and mouth. Elrond wondered how Maglor could bear to look. From this shade he received no memories, but merely a sensation of wistfulness and loyalty.

“Hantanyel, uncles. Could you tell me more, please?” But Maglor stirred himself and put out the forge fire. “Not tonight. The others are scouting the area. They can tell you more.” He picked up the rucksack and turned towards the cabin. “You take the bed and I’ll take the floor. As I wasn’t expecting company, I don’t have any meat, but there’s lembas and plenty of fruit.”

The peredhel smiled. “They’ll go well with the wine and cheese I brought.”

* * *

The next day, father and son spent the day preserving meat and curing hides. Elrond didn’t ask how the pile of skinned corpses had appeared outside Maglor’s door overnight, and Maglor didn’t ask how Elrond had slept with the howls and screams that had filled the dark. When the day approached the end, again the sat by the forge fire. Today, instead of a feeling of being watched, the air felt heavy, smothering and cold, as if he was deep under the waters of a lake rather than walking in the air. No shade or ghost appeared before him, but rather heavy hands upon his shoulders and a cold breath ruffled his hair.

“Aiwendil, a follower of Yavanna. Naive and scatterbrained, but brave in his own way. Lover of birds.” Elrond fought for a deep breath. “So we can trust him?”

Bitter icy laughter and the heaviness drew crushingly tight around his chest, like one of those strange waistcoats they wore in Arnor, made from whalebone and steel. “You can trust him to follow his nature and to follow the mission he was given. But Yavanna loves the wolf as much as she loves the deer. Loves the end of life as much as the beginning. Loves the Eldar, but the rat and the fly as well, and there are millions of them for every one of us. Trust him to follow whatever mission the Valar gave him, but he is no more a friend to us than a plague is.”

With that, the heaviness constricting Elrond disappeared, but the cold air remained. “Enough for tonight?” asked Maglor, coming up with an armload of firewood. The younger ner nodded. “I’ll stoke the fire a little more tonight. Maybe add some of the linseed oil so that it will burn a little brighter.”

* * *

The next day proved that winter was well on its way. Even the inside of the cabin was covered in delicate webs of frost. They spent that day bringing in the last of the garden vegetables before the cold ruined them. The frost formed brilliant patterns over everything, like the finest embroidery fit for a king, and lingered far into the afternoon. When they finally sat down to talk, Maglor had taken some paper and a sharp quill and was copying the icy patterns designs onto paper. Elrond did not ask to see them and Maglor did not offer him any.

This day Maglor did something a little different. The forge had stayed closed today since the Noldo didn’t have any repair work to do. But at the end of the day, Maglor opened the forge door and there was golden light inside. He pulled out a large gemstone, like a topaz carbuncle but glowed with its own inner radiance. He looked up and laughed at Elrond’s wide eyes. “Did you expect I’d carry it around everywhere I go? That would be quite inconvenient.”

“You’re using one of the most precious artifacts of the First Age as a  _forge fire_?”

“It’s quite appropriate, thematically. Besides, it gives both of us a chance to have some privacy in our thoughts.”

The ghost of the greatest craftsman of the Noldor did not look like a ghost or wraith or remotely supernatural. If Elrond hadn’t known better, he would have thought he was looking at a living person. “Curunir’s clearly been appointed as their leader. He’s another one of Aule. We knew him well. Ambitious and active. Curious and delights in pushing boundaries. Against the dark, he is a formidable ally.”

The smile on Feanor’s face became sharper and darker. This might have been the face he showed Fingolfin, over a sword in Tirion. “All things that were said of Sauron too.”

* * *

That night was filled with nightmares. The golden light of the Silmaril seemed blood-tinged and the shadows it cast moved like living things upon the walls. Despite the love between them, Elrond began looking forward to leaving Maglor’s home. Sensing his disquiet, Maglor drew him outside, to finish the conversation in the light.

“The last is Olorin, who has been in the service of Manwe, Varda, Irmo and Nienna.” Maglor did not bother to wait for any of his brothers to appear, instead filling the role of teacher by himself. “Of all the Maia sent, he is the one who perhaps best understands those of us still here in the changeable world.”

“And the caveat?” But the answer came not from Maglor, but rather a familiar voice behind him. “Of all of them, I do not believe that Olorin will fall.” Maedhros was bright, burning. If Feanor could have been mistaken for a living Eldar, then Maedhros for a Maia. He was like a shade of stained glass, overfilled with the light of the Silmaril he had burned with. “Nor will he forget that he is here to succor the Free Peoples of the West. But as the others fail or falter, he will be forced to take more and more burdens. He will not fall, but he may fail and return West with the mission only half complete. And even if he doesn’t, the choices he will make will be ruthless indeed.”

* * *

Mercifully, Maglor had let him sleep after he had fainted. Elrond suspected his father had cast a few spells of his own, allowing him a peaceful, dreamless rest. Even with that, however, the clearing was overfull, with the flickers of color seen from the edge of his eye, areas of heat or cold or pressure.

“You will be here for a while?”

“Yes, the twins would like to spend more time on woodcraft. And after spending a decade in a Secondborn settlement, I’d like some time to myself.”

“When I first came, I had thought of asking you again to come to Imladris-”

“No.” Maglor cut him off gently, but firmly. “Perhaps in a century or two I’ll visit for a month or a year, but I cannot stay long in the presence of other Eldar.” The younger ner just nodded. He’d braced himself, but even he had found the phantoms that surrounded the last living Feanorian too much. For other elves, lacking the connection he had with the House of Feanor, those sensations were a hundred times worse. His uncles and grandfather had tempered their fear around him and given useful advice. The only other person they had been as kind to had been Celebrimbor. “Give my regards to Artanis.” The last time Galadriel had attempted to see Maglor, she had fainted before getting within a mile of him. Celeborn had had to drag her back to Mithlond before she had revived.

(Strange that the Secondborn never were affected. They could be harmed, hurt or helped but they never saw or noticed the ghosts. When Maglor wanted company, he would go to their settlements to stay for a while.)

“I will.” Elrond hesitated for one long moment, staring around to determine where every shade was preoccupied with something else before stepping close to Maglor. “Atar, have you ever considered … getting rid of it? Just toss it into the ocean. Maybe then both you and they would be able to get some rest.”

“Oh Elrond, don’t you think I’ve tried that already.” They both gazed at the Silmaril, glowing gold in the forge again. “It always comes back.”


End file.
